Ship of Fools
by Neena Varscona
Summary: The Captain’s a tyrant and possibly a madman, but when the crew rebels it’s Wilson who gets caught in the crossfire. House, Wilson slash warning.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own "House" or any of the characters, but I take them out and play with them every once in a while, just for fun. I promise I'll return them in good condition J

A/N: set after "Sex Kills" in season 2. This is a timed-out zine fic from 'Snarcasm 2'.

* * *

It was late, and in the third floor hallways of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital the lighting was at half-mast for the benefit of sleeping patients. Dr. James Wilson stepped lightly, his footsteps echoing softly through the quiet halls. At times like this he always felt like he was trespassing. But, then, right now he felt like he was trespassing in almost every aspect of his life.

Since leaving Julie, his few-days' stay at House's place had stretched to two weeks, and even though House had been unusually accommodating about it, Wilson couldn't help feeling that his welcome would soon wear thin. Frankly, he was amazed his friend hadn't kicked him out on his ass already.

As he rounded the corner to his office, Wilson saw a light coming from the diagnostics conference room and he slowed down. He'd thought everyone had gone home for the night. House had left hours ago, after griping at Wilson for not coming with him and thereby depriving him of a proper, home-cooked meal. And the Three Musketeers should have disbanded shortly thereafter, seeing as they currently had no cases. But as he got closer, Wilson saw Chase, Cameron and Foreman huddled around the conference table, deep in discussion. Warning bells went off in Wilson's brain. The underlings were conspiring behind House's back, and that could only lead to mayhem and misery—something Wilson had had more than enough of lately.

With an exaggerated clearing of his throat, Dr. Wilson pushed open the glass door of the conference room. The resulting reactions were so comical they almost made him laugh. Dr. Chase looked like a kid who'd been caught stealing from the cookie jar, and Dr. Cameron's face turned a whiter shade of pale from the shock of getting caught. Dr. Foreman, though obviously surprised by Wilson's sudden appearance, had a smug look on his face. Without a doubt, Foreman was the one behind this…whatever it was.

"I guess that's it for tonight," said Foreman. "We can work out the details later." He got up, gathered his belongings and pushed past Wilson, giving him a dark, self-satisfied smile that reminded Wilson unnervingly of House. Chase was hot on Foreman's heels, eager to escape the scrutiny of Wilson's glare. But Cameron, with more things to gather up, had lagged behind, and Wilson blocked her escape, his arms crossed like a disapproving parent.

Cameron boldly stood her ground, clutching her folder tight against her chest and frowning at him as if declaring a stalemate.

"Care to tell me what that was all about?" asked Wilson, giving her his best stern look.

For a second it looked like she was contemplating an all-out denial, but she was smart enough to realize that there was only one way she was going to get past him. "It's March 30th," she said, as if that was enough of an explanation.

"And…" Wilson prompted.

"And that means April Fool's Day is coming up," she said, that guilty look creeping back onto her face.

"Ah," said Wilson, having worked out the gist of what their clandestine meeting was about. The previous year, House had pulled a prank on Foreman, hiring an actor dressed as a cop to arrest him as he was breaking into a patient's apartment (as per House's orders, of course). The year before that, Chase had spent a harried morning trying to figure out why several collection agencies were suddenly after him. "So you were trying to figure out which one of you House has targeted this year."

Cameron's eyes shifted away from his and she started fidgeting nervously with the folder in her hands.

"Wait!" Wilson exclaimed, pointing a finger at her triumphantly. "That's not it, is it? You weren't wondering what he's up to—you're planning a counter-strike!" Cameron's eyes shot up to meet his, and Wilson knew he'd hit the nail on the head.

"So what if we are?" said Cameron defensively. "Maybe it's time he got a taste of his own medicine."

Wilson snorted out a laugh. "The _last_ thing House needs is more medicine."

"You know what I mean," said Cameron.

"Yes, I do," answered Wilson, his smile dropping away. "And you know House well enough by now to know that if you do whatever it is you're planning to do, someone's going to get hurt. And it won't be House."

Cameron shifted from one foot to the other under his intense glare. She feared he might be right, but she had to play her part—Foreman and Chase were counting on her. And besides, she reasoned, it was harmless fun, and their plan was foolproof.

"No one's going to get hurt," she said.

Wilson eyed her sceptically. "What are you going to do?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Cameron answered.

"If you won't tell me, I'm sure I can get it out of Chase," said Wilson.

"Fine, then ask him," she replied defiantly and squeezed past him into the dimly lit hallway.

Wilson heard the sound of light jazz piano emanating from House's condo as he got out of his car. He smiled—jazz was good. Jazz meant that, despite his bitching earlier, House was in a good mood.

The piano stopped when Wilson's jangling keys alerted House of his arrival. And by the time he pushed open the door, House was well into one of the more depressing blues songs in his repertoire. But Wilson wasn't fooled. He knew it was a jazz night.

Under the analytical gaze of his friend, Wilson dropped his satchel on the floor by the couch, stretched a kink out of his back and sauntered into the kitchen.

"It's too late—I've already eaten," said House to his own bluesy accompaniment.

"And I see you didn't make enough for both of us," Wilson shouted back to him. The frying pan on the stove had just enough dregs of House's stir-fry dinner at the bottom of it to rub it in. House's reply was a dramatically morose series of minor chords. Wilson shook his head with a tolerant smile and rummaged through the cupboards and fridge to find something to eat. Unfortunately everything he found required more time and energy than Wilson was willing to expend, and he ended up carrying a half-empty box of Ritz crackers and a beer back into the living room.

"You call that dinner?" asked House.

Wilson shrugged and flopped onto the couch, stretching out along its length like a seasoned pro. With a beer in one hand, comfort food in the other, and House finally giving in and returning to jazz on the piano, Wilson felt instantly at home. This was why he hadn't continued looking for a place of his own after the deal on the first place fell through. He couldn't bear the thought of returning home to an empty apartment after a hellish day like the one he'd just had. And while House may not have a warm meal waiting for him when he got home, it was still an improvement over the cold shoulder he used to come home to when he was living with Julie.

When it came right down to it, House was there when he needed him. Despite the verbal evidence to the contrary, Wilson knew his friend cared about him. Whenever he doubted that (and it happened frequently), he always remembered what a wise young kindergarten teacher once told him: it isn't what he says, it's what he does that proves he cares. And that was why, three failed marriages later, Wilson could still count on House to take him in.

And this time, House hadn't shoved him out the door after three days. Wilson didn't know if it was because this time it was his wife who'd done the cheating and House felt sorry for him, or if it was because House had just lost Stacy and he secretly welcomed his company. Wilson hoped it was the latter, and it seemed more likely, given that House wasn't the pitying type.

Suddenly the music stopped, and Wilson peeked his head over the back of the couch to look at House. "Why did you stop?" he asked.

"You were humming," House answered.

"I was not," Wilson protested.

"You were. And what's more, you weren't even humming the same tune I was playing. If you're going to hum, have the decency to stick to the program."

"Sorry," said Wilson around a mouthful of crackers. He realized House was right—he _had_ been humming.

"You seem unusually chipper tonight—have you been sneaking joints from your patients' stash again?" asked House.

"Can't a guy simply be happy?"

House studied him, looking doubtful. "Sure. But you were downright grouchy when I left you at work."

"Alright; if you really must know, I'm happy because you're happy. It's contagious."

"If you think I'm happy, then you're on better drugs than I am," said House.

"Okay. Maybe 'happy' is too strong a word. But you've definitely been less miserable lately," said Wilson with an impish smile. "Admit it."

House harrumphed quietly and went back to his jazz, making Wilson's smile broaden playfully. He hadn't denied it. In fact, his silence was pretty much an admission that Wilson was right. It was a victory he intended to savour.

With a tiny grunt, Wilson dragged himself off the couch and carried his beer over to the piano. Leaning over the glossy black instrument, Wilson dug a dollar bill out of his wallet and slapped it down in front of House.

"I'd like to request a song," said Wilson.

"I don't do requests."

"You used to."

"I also used to run relay, but somehow that's not as much fun these days, either," said House, finishing off his song with a rolling flourish down the keyboard.

"Just play the song," said Wilson.

"And what song would that be?" asked House, his eyebrows arched comically.

"You know what song," answered Wilson.

With a look that could rival a saint's for long-suffering patience and indulgence, House's fingers plunked out the opening chords of "The Piano Man". It was a standing joke between them, going back to the night they'd first met.

_It was one of those stuffy hospital staff parties that doctors climbing the promotion ladder had no choice but to attend. Stacy had dragged House kicking and screaming to the political butt-kissing event in the hopes that he might actually make a good impression on his new bosses._

_She really should have known better._

_After half an hour of obligatory hand shaking and mind-liquefying insincerity, House managed to sneak away from the crowd to do a bit of exploring on his own. He hit the jackpot when he came across a sitting room furnished with the sleekest-looking black Steinway he'd ever seen. Not that he'd seen many up close. It was too tempting an opportunity to pass up._

_Wilson had come to the party early in order to corner the head of Oncology about the opening he had on his team. He'd put on a winning performance and had quickly come away with a verbal guarantee of securing the position. So with the pressure off, the rest of the evening sparkled with promise of a different kind. He made the rounds, flirting with all and sundry, and as he schmoozed, he lost track of the number of drinks he'd knocked back and soon found himself wandering the halls looking for a bathroom._

_On his way back to the party, the sound of piano music coming from the opposite direction caught Wilson's attention, and he followed the sounds, intent on finding the source of the mysterious music. When he found it, he stood in the open doorway, as captivated by the musician as he was by his rendition of 'Rhapsody in Blue'. The man's eyes were closed—a look of absolute joy on his face as his fingers coaxed life out the keys beneath them. He was so lost in the music that he hadn't noticed Wilson's presence. Or so Wilson had thought._

_With his eyes still closed, the man at the piano spoke to him. "I don't play for audiences…so unless you can sing, get lost."_

_And if Wilson hadn't had a few drinks in him, the rude remark would have been enough to turn him away. Instead, he found the contradiction between the man's surliness and the beautiful music he was producing fascinating, and he was drawn towards the piano._

_Wilson would always remember the moment House first opened his piercing blue eyes and looked at him. It was as if, in that brief moment, he'd been dissected and reassembled and had been found worthy. And as strange as it was, Wilson found himself relieved that this stranger approved of him._

_"Got any requests?" asked the blue-eyed stranger._

_"Piano Man," said Wilson without hesitation._

_"Got any other requests?" the man asked with a look of distaste._

_"'Fraid not," Wilson answered, leaning heavily against the solid black frame of the grand piano. "It's the only song I know all the words to."_

_The man shook his head as if to say 'you have so much to learn, my little one', but smoothly transitioned into the requested song nonetheless._

_Wilson sang, shocking both himself and his new acquaintance with a pleasant-sounding and heartfelt performance. His accompanist nodded in appreciation, and then joined in with a ridiculous vocalized version of the harmonica part that made Wilson nearly fall apart, laughing._

…And eight years later it still made Wilson chuckle.

As House played out the last few chords, their eyes met, sharing the memories the song always brought to the surface. But even though there was a smile on his face, House's eyes looked stark, and the furrowing of his brow suggested that the pain in his leg had encroached on his enjoyment of the song. The familiar rattling of House's pill bottle was a sad reminder of just how much had changed since that night so long ago.

Wilson said nothing about the painkiller House popped into his mouth. He hated nagging him about the pills almost as much as House hated being nagged. And tonight had almost been perfect—the first time since Stacy had left that his friend had shown some sign that he was emerging from his self-imposed misery.

The evening soon drew to a close, with House retiring early to get a decent night's sleep. Wilson cleared away his pathetic excuse of a meal and made up the couch to go to bed. It was the one thing he truly hated about crashing at House's place—the damn couch. It was too short for him, which wouldn't be so bad if it was only for one night. But two weeks without being able to stretch out his legs…it was almost enough to make him want to move out. Almost.

Getting as comfortable as possible, Wilson settled into his makeshift bed and dragged his satchel closer. He rummaged through it and pulled out his journal. Julie had given it to him a year ago on his birthday and had insisted he write in it every night. Somehow she thought it might help their marriage. He hated it at first, but after a few weeks, he actually found it helped him cope with things. It hadn't done a damn bit of good keeping his marriage intact, but it _had_ kept him sane through it all. He was just starting to write when he heard a noise behind him.

That was when Wilson made his first mistake. Startled by the sound, he quickly shoved the journal back into his satchel. By the time he realized how suspicious that might look, it was too late; House limped into view, evil glee lighting up his face.

"Dear Diary…Nervous about meeting J. tonight…" said House.

"Huh?"

"'Twin Peaks'. Laura Palmer's diary..." House explained. Wilson simply stared blankly back at him. "Never mind—you had to be there. So… What deep, dark secrets could the saintly Dr. James Wilson possible have to write about?"

"None," said Wilson. "And it's not a diary, it's a personal journal."

"My mistake. There's nothing at all girly about having a personal journal," said House as he headed into the kitchen. He emerged a minute later with a glass of water in his hand.

"You're never gonna let this go, are you?" asked Wilson, upon seeing the devious leer on his friend's face.

"Oh, no—this is too good," House replied. "So unless you've got something more interesting up your sleeve, you should expect to be teased mercilessly for at least a month."

And that was when Wilson made his second mistake. "How about this?" he said. "I stopped by diagnostics tonight after you left—are you aware that your crew are planning an April Fool's Day mutiny?"

House's eyes narrowed and he smiled that distant smile of his, which meant his mind was in overdrive. Wilson had seen that look many times before, and he feared the worst for House's team. Their boss would not rest until he uncovered their plan, and Wilson feared that this time the body count was going to be high.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

The next morning Wilson awoke with a crick in his neck and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The heavy patter of rain against the living room window only added to his sense of foreboding. At first he wasn't sure where the feeling of dread was coming from, but then he heard House's voice from behind the couch and he remembered.

"Get up, you big, lazy oaf," said House, jabbing Wilson in the tush with the end of his cane. "It's duck-hunting season."

Wilson groaned and dug his face into his pillow. "Five more minutes," he mumbled. But House yanked the blankets off of him, exposing him to the cruelly cold morning air. "Hey!" Wilson shouted.

"Get up—you overslept," said House and stumped off to the kitchen, whistling a tune that Wilson thought he recognized as 'Sunny Side of the Street'.

Wilson looked at his watch and realized that House was right. For the first time in years, his internal alarm clock had failed and he'd overslept. He grumbled and sat up, feeling muggy-headed and drained. The couch was really starting to take its toll on him. More and more he was waking up feeling more tired than when he'd gone to sleep.

Wilson dug through his suitcase and pulled out the only clean shirt he had left. It was as wrinkled as most of House's clothes, and he bemoaned the fact that his friend didn't even own an iron. He got dressed quickly, and headed off to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

When he came out, house accosted him with a plate of food. "What's this?" asked Wilson.

"What does it look like?" said House. "It's toast."

"No. Toast, by definition, has to be toasted. This is just bread that got a little too close to the toaster and got a bit warm."

"Well it's your own fault," said House. "This is what happens when you sleep in and leave the cooking to me."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Wilson as he took the offered plate and lifted a piece of soppy, butter-saturated bread to his mouth. It was better than nothing, he told himself…but not by much.

* * *

The work day had scarcely begun when Wilson's balcony door swung open. Wilson and his teary-eyed patient turned in unison to face the limping madman who'd intruded on the private and painful moment.

"We need to talk," said House, heedless of the crying woman seated opposite his friend.

"Can it wait?" asked Wilson, his eyes shooting daggers at him. "I'm with a patient."

House looked down at the woman as if he honestly hadn't noticed her there. When he turned back to Wilson his expression was dead serious. "I'm in the middle of a personal crisis, Wilson. I need your help."

Wilson's eyes softened somewhat as he took in his friend's obvious distress. "I'm very sorry," he said to his patient. "Would you excuse me for a minute?" The snuffling woman nodded and poked around in her purse for a Kleenex.

Joining House out on the balcony, Wilson gently closed the door to his office and turned to him expectantly.

"I need you to talk to Chase; find out what it is they're planning," said House.

Wilson's jaw dropped open. "I can't believe you interrupted me for this," he hissed angrily. "You said you were having a personal crisis!"

"Did I say 'personal'? I meant to say 'personnel'. My staff are plotting against me. I think that qualifies as a crisis."

Wilson shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh. "It's not like you weren't planning on pulling a stunt of your own against them."

House looked offended. "Yes, but nothing on the scale of what they're planning."

"You don't _know_ what they're planning," said Wilson, pointing out the flaw in his logic.

House's face lit up in victory. "That's _exactly_ why I need you to find out what they're up to."

"Why can't you do it yourself?" asked Wilson.

"Busy."

"And if I say 'no'?"

"Dear Diary… Greg was being such a brute to me today…"

"Fine, I'll do it," said Wilson sourly. "Now can I go back to my patient?"

"Knock yourself out," said House, making his laborious way back over the dividing wall to his own balcony.

* * *

House was a firm believer that luck was nothing more than a person's innate ability to correctly read a situation and to take advantage of whatever opportunities it provided. And if the situation yielded no opportunities, then it became necessary for a 'lucky' person to manufacture them to suit his purposes.

As luck would have it, House managed to scrounge up a patient whose symptoms were marginally interesting enough to warrant his attention, and who also happened to be an eleven year old boy who'd been deprived of his Gameboy by his overprotective parents. It was a bribe opportunity waiting to happen.

House slid the patient's door open with his cane, all the while focused on the PSP in his other hand. It wasn't easy to play while walking with a cane—in fact, it was pretty much impossible—and as he entered, the game made a sad, dying noise.

"Damn," he muttered. "Any idea how hard it is to play this thing one-handed?" House finally looked up from the game to see the boy practically salivating at the sight of the PSP.

"You ever play one of these things, Johnny?" asked House.

"Mike."

"Whatever. Have you?"

"My friend Tyler's got one. He lets me play it sometimes," said Mike. "What games have you got?"

"Hmm? Oh, I dunno," said House distractedly. "They're all the same to me—a lot of fighting…a bunch of explosions…scantily clad women wrestling… You know; the usual."

"Can I see?" asked Mike, his eyes wide.

"I don't think your mom and dad would approve. Waaaaay too violent."

"Pleeease?" the boy begged pitifully.

House seemed to be thinking it over carefully, humming and hawing until beads of sweat popped up on the kid's forehead. "What the hell," he said at last and tossed the game to Mike.

"Aw! Wicked!" Mike exclaimed. "Mega-Death 3000!" His fingers had already expertly set to work on the controls.

"You know it?" House asked innocently.

"Are you kidding? Tyler nearly got grounded for playing it, and his parents let him do _anything_!" The look of sheer glee on Mike's face was such that House knew he'd just surpassed Santa in the 'cool gifts' department.

House let the kid play while he pretended to be busy with doctor stuff, checking charts, fidgeting with the IV, poking around the equipment. He let him play for about five minutes, and then he snatched the game out of Mike's sweaty little fingers.

The kid looked like a puppy that'd been kicked to the curb, which suited House fine. "Sorry, kid—too violent. You'd be in soooo much trouble if your parents found out you were playing this." He waggled the game tauntingly in front of sad, desperate little Mikey.

"They wouldn't know," said Mike.

"Unless I told them," House admitted, switching roles from Santa to Grinch in the blink of an eye. "Tell you what, though—do me a little favour and I'll keep my mouth shut. And I'll even let you play with it tonight after visiting hours."

"Really?" asked Mike hopefully.

Kids were such pushovers, House thought, as he deftly manufactured his opportunity.

* * *

Half an hour later, as Wilson grilled Chase in the hallway outside diagnostics, House paged Foreman to come to his office. Foreman arrived moments later and eyed the confrontation between Wilson and Chase suspiciously before entering House's lair. House was leaning back in his chair, his bum leg propped up on his desk, and his fingers steepled in the universal gesture used by evil geniuses the world over.

Foreman raised an eyebrow at him and folded his arms. "I take it this means Dr. Wilson told you about our little meeting last night?"

House grinned an evil-genius grin and said nothing.

"Dig around all you like," said Foreman. "You won't find anything. There's nothing to find."

"Oh relax. I never expected you to spill the beans," said House. "However…it looks like Bruce out there is ready to crack." House nodded his head in the direction of Wilson and Chase, who were visible through the glass walls of his office. Chase did, indeed, look like he was about to rat out his fellow conspirators.

Foreman seemed unfazed, however, and House decided it was time to play the Mikey card. "Well this has been fun, but it's not why I called you in here. Johnny's overdue to be pestered by his doctors—I want you and Chase to go back in there, kick out his folks and find out what the kids been hiding from his parents."

"It's Mike. And why do you need both of us to do it?" asked Foreman.

"Intimidation. Give him the old 'good cop, bad cop' routine. I bet he'll fold."

"He's eleven!"

"Then if should be real easy," house argued logically.

Foreman shook his head and left House's office, practically ploughing into Chase in the process. "You're with me," Foreman said to the startled intensivist, and marched down the hall towards Mike's room.

The kid was sleeping peacefully when Chase and Foreman entered the room, and his parents were gone; probably taking advantage of their son's nap time to grab a bite of lunch from the cafeteria. Chase was about to walk on over and wake Mike up, but Foreman stalled him with a hand on his arm.

"What did you tell Wilson?" Foreman asked, keeping his voice low.

"What did you tell House?" Chase countered, looking pleased with himself.

"Nothing," Foreman answered. "You?"

"Nothing," said Chase. "This is gonna drive him nuts."

"It's already driving him nuts," said Foreman with a sly grin. "Now all we have to do is sit back and watch him self destruct trying to figure out what we're up to."

"Brilliant," said Chase. "Like watching a dog chasing its tail."

"Foolproof," Foreman agreed.

Lying in bed, Mike feigned sleep, keeping an eye cracked open just enough to make out the two doctors at the foot of his bed. He couldn't help but smile just a little, as visions of 'Mega-Death' danced in his head.

* * *

The reports had come back from all corners. According to Wilson, Foreman, Chase, Cameron and the kid, his team was planning something…and yet they were planning to _do_ nothing. House had to appreciate the beauty of it. All they had to do was make him think they were planning on pulling a prank on him, knowing that he would work himself into a tizzy trying to figure out what it was. But what the kiddies always seemed to forget was that they were messing with the master.

As he sat at his desk, his iPod blaring, House began formulating a plan of his own. Occasionally he would glance through the blinds into the conference room, where his underlings sat hunched together conspicuously, and throwing the occasional glance his way in return. They were playing with fire, he thought, and they were going to get burned. Oh, yes…they would see the error of their ways, he thought, and looked through the glass wall at his poor, unsuspecting victims.

* * *

For once Wilson found himself completely caught up on his paperwork, and after one last round of his patients, he decided to call it an early day. Even if he hadn't finished his paperwork he might have left early—he was tired and he had a splitting headache. He wouldn't be much good to anyone in the state he was in. What he needed was a couple of Tylenol and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

It felt a little strange walking into House's condo alone, and even stranger making himself at home without his friend there to act as host (or anti-host, as was usually the case). He dropped his satchel by the couch like he did every night, and was about to flop down on the couch when he had an even better idea.

House wouldn't be home for at least another couple of hours, and in the meantime, there was a perfectly good queen-sized bed going to waste. His aching muscles cried out at him to take advantage of the opportunity to stretch out and have a nap. Just a quick nap before House came home.

He didn't need a lot of convincing. And so, kicking off his shoes along the way, Wilson padded through the apartment to House's bedroom. The bed was unmade, which was good, because that way House would never find out he'd crashed in it. And that was exactly what Wilson did. He crashed onto the bed, rolling over until his face was buried in House's pillow. He breathed deep, bringing his arms up to hug the pillow closer, and with one foot still dangling over the edge of the bed, Wilson fell fast asleep.

* * *

His condo was dark when House got home, and his first thought was that Wilson had gone out for the evening, which meant that, once again, he'd have to fend for himself for dinner. Screw it, he thought, and picked up the phone, hitting auto dial #3 for his favourite Chinese delivery.

It was then that he noticed Wilson's satchel propped up against the couch and Wilson's shoes lying discarded on the floor leading down the hall to his bedroom.

"Noodle Palace, how can I help you?" came the sing-song voice of a young lady over the phone.

"I'd like to place an order for delivery," House said as he followed the shoe trail down the hallway.

"Hello, Dr. House," the girl chirped, recognizing his voice. "The usual today?"

"Nope. Better make it a double—I've got company tonight," said House quietly.

"Sure thing. It'll be forty minutes."

"Fine," said House and hung up. With his cane in one hand and the cordless phone in the other, House snuck into his own bedroom. Sure enough, he found his friend sprawled belly-down across his bed, arms wrapped tightly around his pillow. House stood in the doorway for a while, watching Wilson sleep. It was a sight he'd imagined, but never thought he'd actually ever see, and he indulged himself with an eyeful of his friend before tucking those thoughts neatly back into their closet.

A part of him was tempted to shake Wilson awake, just for the shock value, but luck had once again presented an opportunity that he couldn't pass up. Leaving his friend to his dreams, House retreated to the living room, where Wilson's satchel sat by the couch, beckoning to him. He 'accidentally' knocked it over, and Wilson's journal 'just happened' to fall out. What kind of friend would he be if he didn't tidy it up?

Whatever.

House dropped the pretences and grabbed the burgundy, leather-bound journal. Burgundy—the guy's version of pink. And the teasing potential just kept on coming.

Settling in for a good read, House cracked the journal open. Skimming through the boring work-related stuff, House searched out the juicy passages, trying to find something that would help him figure out what made Wilson tick.

Sadly, it turned out that Wilson was as cautious a man in private as he was in public. Still, there was enough telling evidence to reveal the hidden Wilson, and it was…enlightening…to say the least.

"House? What are you doing?" Wilson asked, standing rumpled and groggy at the end of the couch.

"Do you trust me?" asked House.

Wilson rubbed a hand over his face and stared at his friend in disbelief. "You're sitting there reading my secret diary, and you ask me if I trust you?"

"I thought it was a 'personal journal'," House countered.

Wilson glared.

"I've got a cunning plan," said House.

Wilson sighed.

"And you're going to help me," House added.

Wilson groaned.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

April 1st.

A day like any other for most people with a mindset over the age of ten, and therefore, a day of childish pranks and nervous anticipation for the diagnostics team of PPTH.

The April Fool's Day rules of engagement state that practical jokes can only be played before noon, and House spent the entire morning giving the would-be pranksters exactly what they were hoping for. He practically ripped apart his office and the conference room trying to 'uncover' their prank.

Chase, Cameron and Foreman watched on in stifled amusement, thinking their plan was going along without a hitch. Noon would roll around and they would put House out of his misery—no harm done. And it was highly amusing watching their boss rampage through his office, growing more aggravated as the morning wore on.

The phone rang twice, and both times House made Foreman answer it in his place. Of course, both times it turned out to be legitimate hospital business, but House cranked up the crankiness, nonetheless, for the benefit of his audience.

At ten-thirty, Dr. Cuddy walked into diagnostics where House was carefully inspecting the cup of coffee he'd just poured for himself.

"We're short-staffed in the clinic, and guess what, House? You're short on clinic hours this week. It's a match made in Heaven."

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's dangerous to play with matches?" House quipped.

"Just get down there," said Cuddy, quickly losing patience.

House gave her a sly grin. "Not a chance," he said. "You've probably got some freak of nature with boils on his penis waiting for me. No way. I'm not going anywhere until after twelve o'clock."

"Get down there now, or I'll add two more hours to what you already owe me," said Cuddy, her eyes blazing.

It was at this opportune moment that Wilson showed up. Dropping his satchel on the floor, he headed around the table to get himself a cup of coffee. "You need someone in the clinic? I've got some time before my next appointment," he said. "I can cover for him for a while."

House smiled smugly at Cuddy, whose frown deepened. "Fine. Thank-you Dr. Wilson," she said, but as she and Wilson were on their way out, she tossed back: "You still owe me two more hours, House." House's response was to make infantile faces at her retreating back.

"What are all of you sitting around for?" House asked the others. "Little Johnny needs a tox screen."

"For what?" asked Cameron, ignoring House's blatant refusal to use the kid's real name. "Both Mike and his parents swear he's never touched drugs."

"We talked to Mike alone—he's adamant about not taking drugs. Said his friend had some, but he didn't take any," said Chase.

"Okay, then," said House. "Test him for the usual suspects…and find out what heart meds his dad's on."

"Mike's father isn't on heart medication," said Foreman, flipping through the chart to make sure he hadn't missed something.

"It's drugs," said House. "Legal or illegal, something messed this kid up, and he's either too scared or too embarrassed to fess up. Now go forth and identify." House ushered his team out the door. He had a pretty good idea what the results of the tests would be, and he knew little Mikey was healthy enough to be discharged, but the kid was handy to have around. There was nothing like having a human pincushion around when you needed an excuse to get rid of your underlings.

Wilson's satchel sat propped up against the wall by the door where he'd dropped it. It was time to get down to work. The hunt was on.

* * *

Quarter to twelve.

They were cutting it close, thought Cameron, but that would only make the last fifteen minutes all the more fun. She knew it was wrong to be enjoying this as much as she was. It was a stupid little prank, but she'd managed to divest all of her pent up frustrations about House in it, and just this once, she wanted to see him lose at his own game.

But when they entered the conference room, Cameron took one look at the fiery-eyed Dr. House and the contents of Wilson's satchel scattered across the long glass table and got a very bad feeling. He was standing at the end of the table, shaking a small, leather-bound journal at them in victory.

"Oh, this is good," said House. "I don't know how you ever managed to talk Wilson into this, but this is good." Again he waggled the journal at them, and Cameron instinctively stepped forward to come out with the truth. She was stopped short by a warning look from Foreman, and against her better judgment, she held her tongue.

"It was a nice little set-up, I'll give you that," said House. "Get Wilson to come in for no apparent reason and 'accidentally' leave his bag behind. Was Cuddy in on it too? Or was that just lucky timing?"

Cameron flashed a brief glance at Chase, who looked like he was as unsure about this as she was. He, too, must have sensed that their plan had somehow backfired. She looked over at Foreman, but he was clearly enjoying himself and had no intention of putting a stop to it.

"But the diary…" House continued his eyes bright with triumph. "Surely you could have come up with something a bit more original than that? I mean, come on! It sounds like something a fifteen year old girl would write." As House flipped through the journal to find the right passage, the door opened. Cameron, Foreman and Chase turned in unison to see Wilson walk in and then stop short at the sight before him.

"March 31st," House read, ignoring Wilson's sudden appearance. "I fell asleep in Greg's bed today. I knew he'd be pissed if he found out—he hates it when other people touch his stuff. But when he got home and found me in his bed, he didn't say anything. I think I was actually disappointed. I think, deep down, I was hoping he'd say something, yell at me, get angry—anything. Because then, just maybe, the truth might have come out. Maybe then, in the heat of the moment, I might have finally told him about my feelings for him. But he didn't say anything, and so neither did I. God help me, I don't know how much longer I can keep hiding it."

The silence after House stopped speaking was absolute. Wilson stood frozen in place, a look of shocked devastation on his face. The others looked on in awkward embarrassment, not really sure how to react. Foreman's smug enjoyment of the situation evaporated the instant he realized that this wasn't just House playing a joke on them—Wilson's pain was clearly very real… and it was at least partly his fault.

"Wow—such acting skills…" said House. "You almost had me convinced."

"You're a real son-of-a-bitch," said Wilson, his brown eyes glassy with the sheen of unshed tears.

"And yet you still love me, apparently," said House.

That was more than Wilson could take. Doing his best to tamp down his emotions, he walked out of the room, feeling four sets of eyes following him. Staring.

"I think I touched a nerve. What do you think?" asked House. His voice was flat and joyless, and he quickly retreated to his office, shutting the door behind him.

Cameron, Foreman and Chase stared through the glass dividing wall at House, whose mood had turned decidedly dark. He sat at his desk, turning Wilson's journal over and over in his hands.

"Maybe we should talk to him," Cameron suggested.

"And tell him what? Hey, guess what, House? Wilson wasn't in on the joke and you just outed your best friend in the most humiliating way possible?" said Chase. "I think he's already figured that out." Foreman and Cameron watched their sullen boss clutching the journal in his hands and knew Chase was right.

"Then maybe we should talk to Wilson," said Cameron.

"I think we've done enough damage for one day," said Foreman. "We should just stay out of this."

"Agreed," said Chase.

Cameron agreed, too, although she wasn't very happy about it. Only later, when she was walking past Wilson's office, did she think Foreman might be right. She peeked in through the window in his door to see Wilson sitting slouched in his chair, his hands splayed out flat on his desk. He had a far-away look in his eyes, and Cameron got the impression he would rather be left alone.

* * *

House spent the afternoon being generally miserable and sharing his misery with others. No one could say he wasn't a giver. His staff wisely kept their distance, but anyone not smart enough to give him a wide berth was taken down without mercy. He purposely avoided running into Wilson, knowing that if he did, it would mean a confrontation. And that was a confrontation he didn't want to have in public.

As for actual work, there was very little for him to do. Little Mikey's mystery illness turned out to be an unfortunate reaction to a very bad combination of recreational drugs and Viagra. It turned out his friend Tyler had access to all the cool stuff, and the Viagra…well, that explained why Mikey was too embarrassed to confess what he'd done. So, with no patients currently on the board, House was left with the whole afternoon to polish up the second stage of his plan.

When he got home, House wasn't surprised to find Wilson already there. What he hadn't expected was that he'd packed up his bags and was about to walk out the door. And House was pretty sure he was leaving in the very permanent sense.

"What are you doing?" House asked, blocking the door so Wilson couldn't get past.

"Did you really think I could stand to be around you after you humiliated me like that today?" said Wilson, barely keeping his emotions in check.

"What are you talking about? You agreed to go along with the plan—read your diary, freak out the kiddies. It worked like a charm."

"I agreed to let you read what I'd written—not to…to make up some ridiculous lie."

"What you wrote was boring," said House. "What I came up with was far more interesting…and not _that_ ridiculous. Hell, half the hospital suspects it, and I happen to know it's true."

Wilson sputtered at him wordlessly for a moment, trying to think of some way to come back at that. "Why? What possible reason could you have to think that I have feelings for you?"

"I read you diary," House replied.

Wilson blinked at him. "Not once in my journal did I write anything like that."

"It was implied."

"Guh!" Wilson said, half-choking in his attempt to formulate coherent speech. "How? How did I _imply_ it?"

"Simple. Out of the three hundred and fifteen entries, you mentioned me in two hundred and eighty-three. And of those entries, I was the sole focus of two hundred and nine. Julie, on the other hand, only managed to make guest appearances in your diary eighty-eight times. Add to that the fact that you'd rather sleep indefinitely on my lumpy, uncomfortable couch than in a nice, comfy hotel room, and I drew the obvious conclusion. Plus…when you stand like that, with your hands on your hips, you make Richard Simmons look like a he-man."

Wilson flushed hotly and dropped his hands from his hips where they'd been resting. He was furious at House, because the damned son-of-a-bitch simply assumed he was right. But, more than that, Wilson was afraid…because the twisting knots in his stomach told him that House might not be entirely wrong. It wasn't anything he was ready or able to deal with, though, so he picked up his luggage and barged past House to get to the door.

"You're insane, you know that?" Wilson said, his voice cracking, as he tried to open the door with the luggage still in his hands.

"And you're in denial," said House. With more force than was strictly necessary, he grabbed Wilson by the shoulder, spun him around and then shoved him back up against the door.

"What are you doing?" Wilson demanded, dropping the luggage so he could pry House's hand off his chest.

"Proving I'm right," House answered. In one swift move he dropped his cane, planted his hands on both sides of Wilson's face and kissed him. It was rough and quick—too quick for Wilson to react—but when House pulled away and saw the shiny-eyed look of betrayal and anger on his friend's face, he decided it was all or nothing.

Before Wilson could protest, House brought their lips together again. Only, this time, there was nothing rough or quick about it. Wilson fought it at first, struggling half-heartedly to pull away, but he was cornered and he knew it. In the end it was Wilson who deepened the kiss, opening his mouth just enough to let House know he was willing. House wasted no time in accepting the invitation, taking full advantage of the opportunity to explore Wilson in a way he'd never have thought possible.

When House finally let him go, Wilson quickly wiped away traces of the tears that had tracked down his cheeks, and hung his head. He was breathing hard, and to his utter embarrassment, House had raised firm, physical evidence that he was right. They stood there, inches apart, while House waited for him to say something. But what could he say? What good would it do to admit that House was right? At last Wilson managed to lift his watery eyes to look at him.

"So now what?" Wilson asked bitterly. "You've proved your point. What happens now?"

House cocked his head and stared at him like he was the biggest kid riding the short bus. "Well…once you're done blubbing and whining, I thought it might be fun to take this to the bedroom."

House didn't bother waiting for a response this time. Instead, he picked up his cane and one of Wilson's suitcases and headed off to the bedroom, leaving his stunned friend standing at the door. Either he'd get over the shock and join him, or he'd freak out and run for the hills. House wasn't overly worried—one way or the other, he figured he'd be better off. Wanting something that's just out of reach was worse than having no shot at it at all.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Wilson watched House disappear down the hallway to his bedroom and knew the smart thing to do would be to walk out the door and put all of this behind him. It might mean the end of their friendship if he did, but the alternative…Wilson couldn't even wrap his head around that one. He looked down at the remaining piece of luggage at his feet and picked it up. Then he turned around and opened the door to leave—but found he couldn't do it.

He stood in the open doorway a long time, trying to sort through his emotions. He could still feel House's lips on his, and remembering the surreal incident was making him hard all over again. It was impossible to continue to deny that he was attracted to the other man. But what House had done to him was humiliating, manipulative, and inexcusable. In other words, it was exactly what he should have expected from him.

There was still a choice to be made; one that could possibly change his life forever. If he left now, he could carry on with his life House-free. He'd go to work every day, go home alone every night, maybe start dating again, and eventually wind up in another dead-end marriage. It sounded safe, normal, and utterly depressing. If he stayed…well, it would be like diving head-first into the deep end of a murky pool without first having learned how to swim. It was insane to think he could take on House—imperfections and all—and at the same time try to deal with his first homosexual experiences. The knots in his stomach twisted again as his anxiety over the situation dialed up a notch.

Sitting on his bed waiting, House heard the sound of the front door closing and he hung his head briefly. So that was it, then, he thought; he'd scared Wilson off for good. He was surprised to discover that he was truly disappointed. He'd convinced himself that it didn't matter—if Wilson stayed, then great! If he left…at least there'd be less nagging to put up with. But now that Wilson was gone, the nagging no longer seemed like such a big deal. With a sigh of resignation, House got up off the bed and started back towards the living room.

When he almost ran headlong into Wilson coming from the opposite direction, he was surprised enough to let down his guard, and some of the relief he felt flashed across his face. "Took you long enough," said House.

Wilson smiled at the lame cover-up attempt. "If we're going to do this, we need to set some ground rules," he said.

House rolled his eyes. "Here we go," he said and limped his way back towards the bedroom.

"First," said Wilson, following; "hurt me again like you did today, and you'll lose me for good. Understood?"

House had an excuse for his behaviour on the tip of his tongue, but he knew that if he voiced it, Wilson would turn tail and run. Biting his tongue, he managed to keep quiet and nod back at him.

Wilson studied House for a moment, waiting for the argument. When it didn't happen, he continued. "Second, I get to set the pace. This is all…new to me…and if I need to take things slowly, you have to be patient. Got it?"

House winced. Going at Wilson's pace could be the death of him—as it was, he was finding it hard not to toss the younger man down on the bed and rip his clothes off. With evident disgruntlement, he restrained himself and grudgingly nodded again.

"Good," said Wilson. "Alright. Would a rule number three be pushing it?"

"Damn right," House practically growled back.

"Too bad," said Wilson, taking great pleasure in his moment of power. "Rule number three: I decide if and when we let other people know."

House had no problem with that, and he quickly nodded in agreement. He knew that if it was up to Wilson, their little secret would stay buried for a very long time, and as far as House was concerned, the longer his private life stayed private, the better. "I can live with that," he said, and took a seat on the bed, patting the spot beside him in invitation.

"Uh-uh. _My_ pace," said Wilson.

House watched Wilson walk away and a slow smile spread across his face. There was nothing he loved more than a good challenge. He waited a few torturously long minutes before following him.

He found Wilson in the kitchen, digging out ingredients for a meal that looked like it was going to be aggravatingly healthy. Leaning against the counter, very much in the way, House quietly began to pester Wilson, toying with the food and generally ogling at him.

"Are you going to help, or are you just planning on staring at me all night?" asked Wilson, as House started getting on his nerves.

"You're giving me a choice?" asked House innocently. "In that case, I choose to stare. I might even mentally undress you, if that doesn't break any of the rules."

Wilson felt the heat creeping up from under his collar at the lascivious look House was giving him. He felt a fluttering in his stomach, which was better than the twisting knots he'd had earlier, but just as unsettling. He turned away and tried to focus on chopping vegetables, but a minute later he felt a warm presence behind him, and hot breath against his neck.

"House…do you mind?"

"Not at all," said House, his voice directly in Wilson's ear.

"You're cheating."

"Am not," said House petulantly. "I'm not touching—I'm just looking."

"Can't you look from further away?" asked Wilson. House's breath on his skin was raising goose bumps all up and down his body.

"I could, but I don't want to."

"I can't make dinner with you hovering around me like that."

"I don't feel like eating…at least, not food."

Wilson squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block the mental images that sprang to his mind. "House…"

"You never said anything about not talking dirty in your rules," said House, and he leaned in closer, forcing Wilson to belly up to the kitchen counter. "So…if I want to, I can tell you how much I'd like to run my hands over your body right here, right now. Maybe I'd strip off your clothes…or maybe not. Maybe I'd leave them on, and just feel how your muscles tense and tremble under my hands. Then I'd kiss you, kiss trails down your chest, through your shirt…through your pants…I'd tease you until you're weeping. And when I finally undo your fly and pull you free, you'll look down at me and beg…"

"Jesus, Greg!"

"Or something along those lines," House agreed.

Wilson twisted around to face him, his eyes dark with need, and he effectively wiped the smirk off House's face by grabbing hold of his shirt and yanking him in for a kiss. Their teeth clashed, but the brief pain didn't slow Wilson down. It was like a light had been switched on, and everything had suddenly become clear. Some part of him had known, since the moment they first met at that party all those years ago, that no one could ever live up to House in his eyes. The wives, the nurses, the inevitable divorces—all of it was nothing more than a refusal on his part to accept the unacceptable. Now his hands fumbled, trying to keep up with his need to feel more of the man he'd denied himself of for so long. They fought with buttons and zippers, prying at incompliant cloth to uncover more skin to explore.

House was busy doing some exploring of his own, his hands deftly honing in on the parts of Wilson's anatomy he believed would elicit the best responses. Popping the buttons that got in his way, House tore open Wilson's shirt and instantly set to work on his nipples, bringing them both to attention with groans of approval coming from deep within his friend's throat.

"Is it okay to touch you now?" House breathed hoarsely in Wilson's ear.

"Do you really need to ask?" Wilson panted in response.

"According to rule number two…"

"Shut up and touch me," said Wilson, capturing House's lips with his own to shut him up.

This was one instance in which House was quite willing to obey a direct order.

* * *

The next morning at work, Wilson had to put up with House's smug pride in overcoming Wilson's attempts to control the 'pace' of their new relationship. The odd remark here and there was bad enough—like calling him Speedy Gonzales in front of Cuddy, or asking him repeatedly if he was 'going too fast' for him as they walked down the corridors—but it was the high and mighty attitude that went along with it that made Wilson want to smack him upside the head.

It wasn't until late that afternoon that he came up with a better method than physical violence of getting even. House was at his whiteboard, jotting down the symptoms of his latest patient. His underlings were keeping their distance, wary of their boss' unusually good mood, when Wilson wandered in. The tension in the room instantly shot through the roof, as Chase, Cameron and Foreman waited for the blowout they thought was inevitable.

It was the perfect opportunity to settle the score.

"House!" Wilson exclaimed, rounding the table towards him, three sets of startled eyes tracking his every move. "I think we owe your staff an explanation."

House sighed and placed his black marker down. He should have known he would insist on letting them off the hook; unlike him, Wilson didn't believe in using mind games as a means of maintaining discipline. He expected Wilson to stop and face the others (hands on his hips, no doubt), and regale them all with a lengthy discourse on the folly of deception and the value of trust and honesty in the workplace. But instead, Wilson kept coming towards him, and until they were face to face, House had no idea what he was up to.

The kiss shocked House nearly as much as it did his underlings. Wilson—shy, conservative Wilson—had locked him in a very steamy and un-conservative embrace, complete with groping hands.

The moment Wilson released House and saw the look of absolute astonishment on his face, he knew it was worth it. It was a hell of a way to come out of the closet, but he figured that if the rumours were going to spread anyways, he might as well take House down with him.

As Wilson walked serenely out of the conference room, a grin tripped across House's face. He wasn't sure what he loved more, the pandemonium this little incident was going to stir up, or the fact that he might have finally met his match.


End file.
